A Brush With Death (6 page)

“I know. I'm enough of a puritan that I'd feel guilty if I wallowed in luxury
all
the time. I'm willing to work for it."

“I'll do the dirty work. Your job'll be keeping the home fires burning."

It was my turn to smile. Did he really know that little about me? While he was in this uxorious mood, I said, “Why didn't you call me the last three weeks? Sometimes you don't call for ages. I know your job's dangerous. I worry about you, John."

“I should have phoned,” he admitted. “There was something I—I didn't want to—discuss.” He looked as guilty as a shoplifter with the goods in his pocket.

My heart clenched like a fist. “What was her name?” I asked, in a thin, cold voice.

"Her?
What makes you think it had anything to do with a woman?"

“What else would you hesitate to tell me?"

“That I was thinking of quitting my job."

My mind went blank.
"Quitting!
Are you
crazy?
You've got a
perfect
job! You'd never get another job as good as this one! You make so much money when you recover stuff."

“I thought you might feel that way.” He gave me a strange look, assessing. He looked as though it was only his money I was after. I knew his dad had a hardware store in Plains, Nebraska. Was that what he had in mind? Working behind a counter?

“Why were you thinking of quitting?” I asked fearfully.

“I'm tired of running all over the world. When I learned I didn't get the job in the Netherlands, I felt a bit pissed off. Sorry, ticked off. I probably would have quit if they hadn't let me come to Montreal. That's the only reason I'm still working for them. I wanted to see you, and talk it over with you first."

“Then it wasn't a woman?” I asked. I must really love him. My major feeling was relief, not disappointment, at his wanting to quit what I considered the ideal job.

“Is that what you thought?” he asked, and looked as pleased as punch. “I hope you don't think I've been two-timing you. I don't go out with other women. What do you take me for?"

I must have looked guilty. His smile faded, and he said, “You're not seeing other guys! Are you?"

Before I was required either to lie or admit it, a porter came into the bar paging John.

“That'll be Parelli!” he exclaimed, and beckoned for the phone. Before he answered it, he said, “We'll return to this subject very soon.” His face was purple. John has a low threshold of jealousy.

It is odd that a fit of apprehension should have made me realize I was ravenously hungry. Gino Parelli would be eating with us, which did not fill me with delight, although his presence would obviate a discussion of my dates. Our romantic evening was definitely not proceeding as planned. With luck, Parelli wouldn't stay long. That was my futile hope. I should have known better. Parelli is a human burr. He sticks. In a few minutes John put down the phone and turned to me with a fierce eye. “Now, where were we?” he asked menacingly.

“I thought we were supposed to be engaged!” he howled, in a whisper loud enough to turn a few neighboring heads.

“I thought so too. After the third week without hearing from you, I began to wonder, of course...” That was my sole excuse.

“So you've been dating only the last three weeks?"

“That depends on what you call dating."

“I call going out with another guy dating."

“I just went to college functions. Concerts, lectures, out for coffee...” His tense face relaxed noticeably. In a small voice, I added, “Dances."

“Dances!"

“Dance—one dance."

A foursome of college classmates chose that most inauspicious of moments to spot me and stop for a chat. “Oh, your dad's spending Christmas with you!” Tillie Jeffreys exclaimed, smiling politely at John, before I got around to introducing them. It was that slightly receding hairline that fooled her. Of course she's not hard to fool. I worked a few years before going to college, and I'm older than a lot of the students, but younger than John.

Things went downhill from there. My friends reminded me of the Christmas formal, and bragged about how much they had drunk, and how late they got home. Tillie didn't get home till the next afternoon. “Are you visiting Chuck for Christmas?” Tillie asked me. I was only out with him twice!

John refrigerated a smile at her and said, “I'd like to be alone with my daughter, if you don't mind."

“I thought Cassie said you weren't her father."

“She has a faulty memory."

They left, in confusion, whispering among themselves and looking at us askance.

“You didn't have to be so rude,” I snipped. It was one of those occasions when offense is the best defense.

“I didn't have to be gullible and faithful either. Who's this Chuck?” He enunciated the name with disgust, as if it were excrement.

“Just a quiet, scholarly little guy who helped me with my French."

“How little?"

“Six foot two—but thin. Well, thinnish. The Christmas formal is the first dance I went to. If you'd phoned, I would have asked you if you minded."

“Oh sure, it's all my fault."

“It's not a question of fault. We're civilized adults. When we're apart for so long, we can have a few dates without compromising our relationship."

“I'm glad to hear it. I've been damned lonesome all these months."

What future catastrophe was I creating here? “If you like, we'll both agree not to have dates,” I suggested hastily.

“This is going to take some thinking."

I never thought I'd be glad to see Gino Parelli, but I was. I believe there is some height requirement for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Gino Parelli obviously escaped it. He is about five feet four inches of repulsive ugliness. His crinkly reddish hair is thin on top. His white, doughish face looks as if it had been modeled with a rolling pin, the roller dragged along those slack cheeks, with the extra buildup of jowly mass around the edges. His stocky body, just verging on fat, was encased in a blue suit that might possibly have some historical value. It looked as old as time. If you banned vulgarity from his vocabulary, he'd be mute. Oh yes, and he's an M.C.P. to the nth degree. I figured he must be good at whatever he did, or John wouldn't have been so eager to see him.

He joined us in the bar, pulling off a fur-hooded coat that made him look like an Eskimo. John welcomed him and reminded him who I was. “Oh yeah, I remember you now,” he said, running his eyes over me. “I thought at first you were a hooker. No offense. You're the violinist's niece or something, right? Toronto, the Carpani case. How's your uncle?"

“Fine."

“I read in the papers he's back from his European tour. Did he manage to steal any more Stradivariuses?"

I squelched the urge to say, “You can read?” I did, however, say, “My uncle did not steal the Carpani Strad. He bought one that he didn't know was stolen."

“And kept it, as I recall."

“With the owner's permission.” It isn't an indictable offense to sweet-talk a gullible countess into a lengthy loan.

That was the extent of his scintillating conversation with me. “So what's up, Weiss?” he asked, turning to John.

John outlined the situation succinctly. Parelli nodded, gave an occasional grunt, and then said, “I'm starved. Let's go somewhere and chow down."

“It's getting late. The dining room here is probably closed,” I pointed out, hoping he'd finish up his beer and his business and go home.

“This place?” he asked, as though I'd suggested he dine in a sewer. “You gotta be kidding. This is a clip joint. We're going to Ben's Deli. The best smoked meat in the country."

John's eyes lit up with delight. “No kidding! I love smoked meat."

My taste in food is catholic, but as it happens, I hate smoked meat, even from the famous Ben's. It looks raw, and too much like a cow. I, decked out in my fancy hairdo and wearing Sherry's borrowed coat and Giorgio, ordered fattening fries and a piece of cheese cake and listened while the men talked.

I think Parelli noticed the perfume. “What's that stink?” he asked once, sniffing in my direction. “You smell like an expensive whore."

“When did you ever come close to an expensive one?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? I arrested one today—dope dealing on the side. She smelled just like you."

“You must have a sharp nose—to smell perfume over all the garlic,” I replied, looking at his garlicky dill pickle as big as a squash. He held it in his hand, like an ape eating a banana, and chomped on it.

Over coffee, they began to sort out what was to be done. “So you want me to horn in on the case and see what the fuzz found in this Latour case?” Gino asked.

“I'd really like to know."

Parelli kept chomping on the pickle. “Can do, Weiss. No sweat. If what you say is right, this isn't just a local case. The RCMP'll be involved. They'll be glad for an extra badge willing to work the holidays. I'm on holidays myself, but what the hell. Christmas is a crock, right? Squealing kids, noisy toys."

“How many children do you have, Gino?” I asked, amazed that he'd ever found a woman undemanding enough to marry him.

“Me? None that I know of. I'm not married. It's my sisters—Maria, Theresa, Angelina, Gina—a dozen and a half between them. Oh and my brother Tony. He has four or five. They all come home for Christmas. Poor Ma. She'll be baking her butt off all week. Week? Did I say week? She starts in August. What the hell, it's Christmas, right? I should buy the little buggers a present."

“That's a lot of presents,” I said, feeling some sympathy for the man.

“A box of chocolates. It's more than they deserve. I hope it makes them puke. Anything else I can do for you, John?"

“There are a few things. I'd like to get Bergma's address and phone number. He's not listed. Maybe you could throw a little weight around with Ma Bell. And if I'm caught searching his place, I could use some federal help."

“No sweat. I'll let you know if the knife has any prints. You don't want Bergma to know we've got our eye on him, right? No direct police questioning."

“I'd rather not tip him off yet."

“It's going to be tricky finding out where he was tonight at six-thirty without questioning him,” Parelli pointed out.

“I know where he was. He was at Latour's place."

Gino shook his head. “What you got is all circumstantial. You got diddley-squat till we find some witnesses, or the pictures in his possession. if he's as smartass as he sounds, he'll have stashed them somewhere."

“That's why I want to search his place,” John replied.

“They might be at the museum where he works. Finding pictures in a museum, that's like looking for spaghetti at a pasta house."

“But we've seen the pictures,” I reminded him. “We'll recognize them."

Parelli turned a sharp, weasely eye on me.
"We'll
recognize them? Since when did you include yourself in, lady?"

“Cassie's with me,” John said. I couldn't quite figure out whether that was an apology or what, but Parelli accepted it with no more than a disgusted shake of his head.

Gino grunted and said, “About these pictures—Van Goghs— he's the crazy guy that sliced off his ear, if I'm not mistaken?” John nodded. “Cripse, who's nuttier, him or the guys that are forking over millions for his stuff?” That last was a rhetorical question.

Hope springs eternal. I thought Gino would go home when we left Ben's. He stuck like a burr. He came back to the hotel with us after a thoroughly disappointing supper at Ben's Deli. Disappointing for me, I mean. The men loved it. I could see John was impatient to ditch him and continue our fight, but didn't like to be rude since he needed his help. At about eleven o'clock my patience gave out and I said I was leaving.

“I'll drive you home,” John offered.

“Let her take a cab,” Parelli said. “We got plans to discuss."

“There's no point your having the car hauled out again,” I agreed. “I'll see you tomorrow.” John came with me to the desk to call the cab.

“I guess you'll be cracking the books in the morning?” he asked. I thought he'd continue the argument.

“To make up for lost time tonight. And I do mean lost."

“I'm sorry about Gino, but he'll be a big help. The man's a rough diamond. He really knows his stuff, and I'm a complete outsider in this city. He's doing it on his own time too. I can't just dump him. I'll call you tomorrow morning to wish you luck."

I accepted this peace offering. “John, I'm sorry about—you know. Those dates didn't mean anything. I just got bored, sitting around every night."

“I guess I was pretty unrealistic to expect it."

He had defrosted enough to give me a quick kiss before the cab left.

John called in person at about ten-thirty, which was a pleasant interruption in my studies. He was wearing city clothes, a suit and shirt and tie, and still looked wrong in a suit.

“It's colder than a penguin's tail feathers out there,” he said, batting his arms against his body. “How about warming me up?"

I warmed him up only to the extent of one kiss. There was too much to talk about, and too little time. We went to my little living room, more or less a shambles during this exam period, with books piled on any surface that wasn't littered with notes. Even without the mess, it was only a so-so room. Sherry and I hired it furnished—cheap brown wall-to-wall carpet, uninspired beige drapes, tweedy sofa, spindle-legged coffee table, poor lighting.

“So this is where you hang out,” John said, looking around, storing up pictures of me for future thoughts, I figured. “No wonder you're so eager to get out of it. It isn't exactly luxurious.” That was the only reference to the argument.

“A rat's nest, but my own. Well, half my own. Have you had any news from Gino yet?"

John was grinning, which meant success. “The guy's a wizard. He found out half the stuff I wanted to know already. There were no prints on the knife. It's a fairly valuable piece, nineteenth-century Arabian. He got me Bergma's address and phone number. No answer, but of course he'd be at work. He lives in a rented house in Westmount. Gino says it's a real class address."

“Upper Westmount is the Nob Hill of Montreal. The lower end of it's nothing special."